


Obstacle Course

by ShannonPhillips



Series: A Little Less Attitude and a Little More Altitude [3]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7175876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A misunderstanding during a sparring match leads Hera and Kanan to their first serious fight. Set about two months after <em>A New Dawn</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obstacle Course

Hera looks for Kanan over most of the ship before finally finding him in the cargo bay. He’s letting Chopper try to kill him again. Hera likes to think the two of them are finally bonding.

Kanan’s been spending a lot of time in physical training ever since he and Hera were (briefly) captured by pirates, a rather unfortunate incident that Kanan seemed to take as some sort of personal insult to his abilities. Lately he’s been getting Chopper to help him set up increasingly elaborate obstacle courses with crates, tripwires, booby traps—oh, those had _better_ not be live mines, not in her cargo bay—and then he lets Chopper fire freely while he runs the course. Chopper’s hoots and chortles as he waves Kanan’s blaster around in his grappling arms, squeezing off a series of wild shots, verge on the…unsettling.

But Kanan in action is a thing of beauty. He vaults over barriers, dodges blaster bolts with acrobatic finesse, kicks off the wall and spins in mid-air to land in a half-crouch, one hand braced against the deck and the other outstretched. There’s a wolfish grin on his face—it looks very much as if testing the limits of his own capabilities is a pure delight. Then Chopper shoots again, and Kanan tumbles into motion once more. Hera leans her arms on the guard rail, watching him from the gunnery deck above.

Once Kanan reaches the far end of the course, he spins and stretches out his hand. The blaster wobbles in Chopper’s grip, then flings itself across the cargo bay, landing in Kanan’s palm. “Time?” he pants.

 _Time to complete course == 20.299 seconds_ , Chopper returns. And then, rather shrewishly: _Performance == slowing._

“It’s not slowing!” Kanan protests. “We just made the course _harder_ when we added the det—oh, hello, Captain.” He runs a hand over his hair, giving her a half-abashed smile. He’s stripped down to his tight black undershirt, and his skin is damp with sweat.

“Tell me those explosives are not armed,” Hera says, though she can see the red warning lights blinking.

“I…could tell you that,” Kanan says carefully. “Those are definitely words I could say.”

“No _live ordnance_ in my _ship_ , Kanan.”

“It was Chopper’s suggestion!” Kanan says defensively, and Chopper immediately lets out a stream of beratement. “I don’t know even know where he found those.”

 _Kanan-unit == excessive and unnecessary audio output_ , Chopper blares. _Kanan-unit == should run self-diagnostic to correct for disloyal tendencies._

Hera holds up a hand. “Chopper, if you have a secret stash of detonators somewhere on the ship, get rid of it. In the future—and this goes for both of you—anything _explosive_ will be stored in _plain view_ with _all possible safety precautions_ engaged, am I clear?”

 _C1-10P == acknowledges command_ , Chopper grundles.

“Yeah, got it,” Kanan says. He picks up a towel, wiping sweat from his face and neck. “Did you need something else?”

She sighs. “Actually, I came down to get your input on the next mission.”

“Sure, where are we going?”

“Well,” she says. “That’s what we need to talk about. The Imperial Senate just approved a budget for next year. Military expenditures are increasing by twenty percent.”

“Again,” Kanan comments.

“Yes, again. This web of contacts that I’m building—it won’t mean anything if I can’t help them organize their resistance efforts, and do _that_ I need to know what kind of projects are in the pipeline and where troops are being sent. The kind of specifics that don’t get included in public budget reports.”

“Uh huh,” Kanan says. “What’s your plan?”

She takes a deep breath. “A series of hit-and-run strikes on Imperial targets. Widely spaced in geography, staggered in time, and all of them relatively small and obscure: a listening post in the Pastil system. A troop transfer waypoint in the expansion region. A decommissioned prototyping plant on Taris. And lastly, a payroll processing center on Eriadu.” Kanan’s face sets, but he doesn’t say anything, so Hera goes on: “We get in and out as quickly as we can, and cause as much damage as possible while we’re there—make it look like random acts of destruction from disaffected locals. And _I_ get data. The kind that might not be valuable on its own, but starts to build an image when you put it all together.”

“I don’t like it,” Kanan says at last. “If somebody else puts it together, you’re going to draw a lot of heat. More than you can handle.”

“We’ll take time between each op,” she promises. “And we’ll lie low afterwards.”

Kanan tosses the towel aside. She still can’t read his face. Hera sighs. “You’ve made it clear that your involvement has limits,” she says. “If this goes past them, then I’ll take point with Chopper on these missions. Are you willing to fly the Phantom—to be our getaway pilot?”

“No.” His response is immediate and flat, and Hera swallows a surge of disappointment. She knew he might not agree to lead the strikes, but she’d really expected _some_ backup. What is the point of having abilities like his, if he won’t use them?

“All right,” she says evenly, pushing away from the guard rail. “I’ll plan on doing this without your help.”

“I said I won’t sit in the shuttle,” Kanan says. “I didn’t say I won’t help.”

She turns back to him. “Really?”

He nods tightly. “You fly us in and out. I’ll get your data.”

She’s flooded with happiness and gratitude. “I could _hug_ you.”

That gets her a tiny smile—more of a softening, really, around the jaw. “Not from there you couldn’t.”

So she swings over to the access ladder and climbs down to the cargo deck. She fully intends to embrace him, but when she gets close he stops her, his hands cupping her shoulders. “Actually,” he says, “you know what I’d really like? Spar with me.”

“Right now?” she stammers.

“Right now and on a regular schedule,” he says. “I know you’ve got to train. You’re exceptionally good. You can’t maintain that without practice.”

Her cheeks feel suddenly hot. It’s the disarmingly frank, matter-of-fact way he delivered the compliment. “I lift weights,” she says. “I have a punching bag stowed in my quarters. Nothing like”—she waves her hand at the elaborate course set-up—“this.”

He drops his hands, but his expression is still intent. “If you want to take on stormtroopers, we _both_ need to be in top form.”

“I won’t be any match for you,” she objects. She can go toe-to-toe with the occasional bunch of drunk low-lifes in a cantina, or a would-be mugger looking for an easy score. Not a _Jedi._

“Then I can teach you something,” he says. “And anyway, you’ll make a better sparring partner than Chopper.”

She sighs. “All right. Let me go change.”

In her cabin, she peels off her armor, flight suit, and headpiece, and dresses herself in gray leggings and a close-fitting, sleeveless compression top of the same color. It ends with a broad band just under her breasts, leaving her midriff bare—Hera thinks about pulling her usual white shirt back on over it, but that seems unnecessary. It’s true that she normally covers herself from neck to toe. But that’s about practicality, and also meant to signal something to the world about her general sexual unavailability. It’s armor, both literal and symbolic.

Hera doesn’t really have any innate problem with showing skin. In her childhood it was not an issue; she grew up wearing simple, knee-length tunics, just like all the other kids. Yet…she’s been pretty careful, ever since Kanan came aboard. He sometimes walks to and from the ‘fresher with only a towel slung around his hips. Hera dresses completely before stepping out of her quarters.

It’s not something she’s given a lot of thought. She just felt more comfortable that way. Now—as she wraps a strip of soft, black cloth around her forehead and ties it behind her neck—she wonders if that has something to do with why Kanan waited so long to ask for a sparring partner. He’s a lot more sensitive to other people’s feelings than he likes to let on.

But she knows Kanan won’t fall apart at the sight of an uncovered navel. He doesn’t ask for a lot of favors, but he asked for this, and it’s something she can give him. She pulls her gloves back on, and heads back to the cargo bay.

Kanan and Chopper have cleared away most of the obstacle course (including, thankfully, the mines) and pulled out some old mats that she mostly uses for cushioning delicate cargo. Kanan finishes spreading out the last of them, then straightens. His eyes do flicker when he sees her, but whatever reaction that was is gone in an instant.

“All right,” he says, smiling, and spreads his hands. “Give me your best shot.”

Hera shifts, nervously. “Ryloth fighting is dirty fighting,” she tells him. “Groin strikes, jabs to the neck and eyes.”

“Sure,” he says. “Disable the enemy as quickly as possible. I like it.”

“I don’t want to…” She trails off, uncertain.

His eyes soften. “You don’t want to hurt me. I don’t think you will.”

Hera bites her lip and nods. He wants a challenge. She’ll do her best.

She goes in fast, closing the distance between them with two quick steps and then snapping off a low kick. Kanan pivots and strikes at her shoulder, trying to destabilize her while she’s off-balance from the kick, but she deflects with her right arm and follows up with a left punch to the solar plexus. Then…something happens that she doesn’t quite catch, but it ends with Kanan pinning both her wrists and spinning her so that her body is trapped against his.

He lets her go as soon as she’s had time to register what happened. “Want me to walk you through that?”

“Yeah,” she says. Her heart’s racing; she tells herself it’s the exhilaration of competition. She can feel the heat of his body and smell the sweat on his skin. It’s not unpleasant, but at the same time it’s almost unbearable.

They move through the steps again, slowly this time, as Hera forces herself to focus. Why does her skin feel tight and shivery wherever his hands touch her? She’s touched Kanan before. She’s been living in tight quarters with him for months. Granted, it was never bare skin on skin, but should that make _such_ a difference?

He’s trying to show her the countermove. “One more time,” Hera says, as steadily as she can. This is not anything she’s used to dealing with. She forces herself to focus, and the next time they close she’s able to trade strikes with him for a few more seconds.

Then she tries for a leg sweep, and he counters by moving in close and hooking a hand beneath her thigh, lifting and destabilizing so that she goes down hard—or, she would have, if his other arm weren’t wrapped around her back. She still falls, but he controls the momentum, and she lands with him pinning her. She stops breathing for a second, and not from the force of the fall. She could kiss him, it would be so easy, she’d only have to lift her chin…

She closes her eyes instead, until she feels him roll away. This is impossible, this is not—certainly, she’s aware that Kanan is _attractive_ , but it’s always been easy to push those thoughts away. She’s never had this kind of visceral, physical reaction to another person before. Her blood is racing just beneath her skin. It’s like her entire body and most of her brain is paying attention to nothing but the precise number of nanometers between herself and him, and everything in her is singing across the gap.

Kanan offers a hand down and she lets him pull her up. Is this what it’s been like for _him_ all this time? Hera grits her teeth. He’s coped well; she can too.

“Again?” he offers, and she just nods.

No, Kanan’s not the one who will have trouble with some exposed skin. Maybe _he’s_ not the reason she stayed so carefully buttoned up all this time.

They close once more. And either Hera’s growing distraction is sabotaging her, or Kanan’s no longer holding back. Her very first punch he easily sidesteps, and traps her arm with his while she’s overextended. It’s like he knew exactly where she’d be—

“Kanan,” she gasps, “are you _reading my mind_?”

“What? No.” There’s a laugh in his voice but the thought is so awful, so sickening, that she simply twists to look at him in horror. The smile dies from his face. “Hera?” he says uncertainly, dropping the lock on her arm.

Because it would make sense—it would make terrible sense—“The Jedi,” she says, although the words are coming without any forethought at all. “The Jedi could get in people’s heads, in all the stories, they could. You’re always a step ahead of me and—everything I’m thinking, feeling, is that me or _you_?”

There’s a second when all she sees in his face is sheer hurt. No. No, he would never… Immediately, and with all her heart, she wishes she could take it back.

Then his expression slams shut, his brows drawing together thunderously and his mouth hardening. “Is that what the stories say?” he bites out. “Then get a mob together and write your own ending.”

“No,” she says. “Kanan, I’m sorry—” But he’s already striding for the access ladder, pulling himself up. She’s not sure where he’s going but she is pretty sure that if he leaves like this he’ll never come back. “ _Wait_.”

He doesn’t slow. His voice echoes down. “You’ll believe whatever you want, just like everybody else.”

She runs to the ladder and starts climbing after him. “No.”

He climbs up to the cockpit, then heads straight down the passageway to the crew quarters. Oh stars, he’s going to get his things. “Kanan,” she calls desperately, pulling herself up after him. “ _Please_.”

He stops. His hands, at his side, are balled into fists. “ _This_ is why,” he says softly. “This is why nobody should ever have known.”

When she catches up to him she reaches out, then drops her hand before her fingers can brush his back. “Kanan, I will keep your secret,” she tells him, her voice shaking with sincerity. “Even if you leave now, I will keep it forever. But I want you to stay.” She swallows. “Please stay.”

He looks back at her, over his shoulder. His eyes are shrouded and unreadable. “I’m a step ahead of you because you signal your strikes,” he says. “You need to keep your eyes on my hands, not on wherever you’re going to hit next.”

She gives a gasp of relief, half laughter and half pain. “Okay. We’ll work on that next time.”

He turns to face her, then. “There are,” he says. “There were…techniques for changing a person’s thoughts. They were only ever permissible as an alternative to killing. I haven’t used any of them for eight years. I _won’t_ use them, not unless lives are at stake.”

All she can think of to say is: “I believe you.”

He studies her, his eyes still remote. “I can’t read your mind. But if you felt something very strongly, I might pick up on it. I think I would know if you were hurt.”

She blinks. Even though she wounded him badly with her careless accusation, he’s still trying to tell her what she wanted to know. She pulls off her gloves and reaches for his hand: he lets her take it. She turns it so that it lies in her left palm. “I can tell when you’re hurt too,” she whispers, and twines her bare fingers in his. “Can you feel this?”

And as she closes her eyes, she tries to focus not on her regret, but the reason for it. She never meant to cause him pain. Kanan to her is—a companion, a partner, a friend. Maybe more. Certainly she sees something in him that he’d deny: the hero and the knight. _Her knight._ She focuses on that, on that inchoate surge of admiration and warmth and trust.

If strength of emotion is the criteria here, then he _ought_ to be able to sense her feelings, because she’s not sure she’s ever felt anything more strongly in her life. She needs him to know that he’s cared for and valued. She needs him to know that very, very badly.

His fingers clench around hers, suddenly and strongly. “Hera,” he says hoarsely.

She doesn’t open her eyes, because she’s afraid if she does that he’ll kiss her, and she’s not ready for that. Not while her own emotions are so tumultuous. She just hurt him accidentally; she's certainly not going to risk doing it again.

But she does step blindly forward, trusting—knowing—that he’ll draw her in. For a moment she lets herself rest her cheek against his chest, as his free arm wraps around her.

Then she drops his hand, and steps back, and opens her eyes. “So you’re staying, right?” she says. Struggling for a tone that will take them back to normalcy: friendly, but also brisk.

“I never said I was leaving,” Kanan points out. She doesn’t find that terribly convincing, but she decides to let it slide.

“Good,” she says, and forces a smile. “Because you need a shower.”

He gives a sharp breath of laughter. “It’s been a long day,” he says.

“Well, take a shift off,” she says. “And then we’ll go over the info I have on the Pastil listening post, all right?”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

Hera retreats into her own cabin, relaxing with a sigh against the back of the hatch as soon as it closes. Sparring with Kanan was a lot more stressful than she expected. For multiple reasons. Some of them she’ll have to think over; and some of them, she might just push away for a time.

Too many land mines, all over her ship. Unexploded ordnance in every direction.

And nothing to do but run the course. As well as she can, for both their sakes.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 of [Lean](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5188019/chapters/11954231) by gondalsqueen also features a sparring-on-the- _Ghost_ scene, and although it's Zeb and Hera rather than Kanan and Hera, Kanan is watching and there's some nice Kanera stuff by implication.


End file.
